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picked up the scent right away and trotted over to the fireplace. It was one of those kiva fireplaces. We had one on the patio, for when cool winter nights came along, which was hardly ever.
    Bernie followed me. “Santa comes down the chimney, doesn’t he, Chet?”
    Uh-oh. Hadn’t known that! And security was my job! I made what Bernie calls a mental note.
    Bernie got himself sort of inside the kiva and reached up inside. He grunted, twisted around a bit, and pulled down a big plastic garbage bag. We took it into the kitchen and spilled it out on the table. Piles and piles of money! We were rich at last!
    â€œWhat the hell?” Elrood said, sort of wriggling in his chair, voice in the elf zone to the max.
    We counted the money, Bernie doing the actual counting.“One million, forty-six thousand, seven hundred and eight.” He turned to Elrood. “Mind waiting here?”
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    A lovely day for a drive, like just about every day in the Valley. We drove down to Ocotillo Springs, Bernie behind the wheel, me in the shotgun seat, the plastic garbage bag full of cash on the little bench behind us. Ocotillo Springs was like lots of little desert towns, with one main street, a few bars, a few art galleries, and the rest empty storefronts. At the end of the main street stood a low building with a fenced-in dirt yard, and lots of members of the nation within just lying around in that yard, their eyes dull in a way I didn’t like to see. A woman was hanging some balloons over a big chalkboard by the door.
    â€œ ‘Animal Rescue Fundraiser Today,’ ” Bernie read. “ ‘Please help.’ ”
    We drove on by, took the next turn, followed a dry wash and came to a closed gate.
    â€œTwo Bar Ranch,” Bernie said.
    He got out, opened the gate, and drove up a dirt road up to a small ranch house with a tile roof and a shaded porch out front. We parked beside an old sedan, the kind Bernie calls an old lady ride, meaning a far-from-new sedan in perfect—whoa! Had I seen this car not long ago? You bet. And that old bluish-haired lady now coming out on the porch? With granny-type glasses perched on her nose? Hadn’t she been at the wheel? I was making connections left and right, wherever they were. And maybe I’d have made even more, but at that moment the old lady raised a shotgun and pointed it at Bernie.
    Bernie, still behind the wheel, raised his hands. “Becky Simms?” he said.
    â€œWho wants to know?”
    â€œI’m Bernie Little. And this is Chet. We’ve got something for you.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œSomething that’s actually yours in the first place. But first we need to know if you’re Becky Simms.”
    The woman called over her shoulder. “Beck!”
    A second woman came out of the front door and onto the porch. She also wore a big white cowboy hat with floral decorations and granny-type glasses perched on her nose. This second woman—Beck, if I was following this right—looked like the first only more so, if that makes sense.
    â€œShirl?” Beck said. “What’s going on?”
    Shirl made a little gesture at us with the shotgun. “This here jasper says he’s got something for you.”
    â€œLike what?” said Beck.
    â€œFirst,” Bernie said, “how about we lose the shotgun? This is going to be a good day for you. Don’t want to spoil it.”
    The women glanced at each other. Some sort of unspoken communication passed between them. We have that same thing going down in the nation within. Shirl lowered the shotgun.
    We got out of the car. Bernie grabbed the garbage bag.
    â€œWhat you got in there?” Beck said.
    â€œYour assets,” said Bernie. “Which we’ll trade for Plumpy Bonaparte. A safe and sound Plumpy Bonaparte.”
    The women glanced at each other again.
    â€œLet’s see these so-called assets,” Beck said.
    We went up on the porch.